


In Sickness and in Health

by aubreyli



Series: How Kurt Hummel Got Married verse [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Kind people looking after sick people, M/M, because Author was seriously doped up on flu meds while writing this, but hey at least the characterization is accurate!, sick people, writing of dubious quality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubreyli/pseuds/aubreyli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt gets sick.  Luckily, he's got Blaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness and in Health

The worst thing about being sick when you’re technically a grownup, Kurt thinks morosely as he stares up at the ceiling, is that you can no longer justify calling your mother – or stepmother, in this case – to come home and take care of you. Because he could (call, that is), and she would come and she’d fuss over him and make him soup and pet his hair and work some of that mom magic on him until he feels better; but he won’t call, because she has her job to do and he’s more than old enough to take care of himself.

Besides, he’s not _gravely_ ill – he’s just sick and gross and miserable. He is a ball of misery. He’s a snotty, congested ball of misery. He’s a sweaty, snotty, congested ball of misery. A _gross_ , sweaty, snotty, congested ball of – okay, now he’s just making himself depressed.

He manages to get downstairs without tripping, and is about to start boiling some water for soup when a rush of dizziness slams into him, sending him staggering into a kitchen chair. He clutches his stomach and swallows wave after wave of nausea, stubbornly refusing to vomit on the kitchen floor, until his head clears enough for him to stand up again. He eyes the stove, decides that he’d rather not tempt fate today, and heads to the living room instead. He’s not hungry, anyway.

There’s nothing good on TV, of course. Kurt gets through twenty minutes of a rerun of _America’s Next Top Model_ before he remembers that he doesn’t like this episode’s photo shoot, and switches to a talk show instead. He does contemplate putting in a DVD, but that would require moving from his spot on the couch.

The talk show ends up being about cheating couples, and the yelling just makes Kurt’s head ache more, so he turns off the TV entirely, wraps his robe more tightly around himself, and tries to sleep instead.

Which, of course, is when the phone rings.

“Fuck my life,” he mutters, groping blindly for the end-table phone with one hand while shoving a cushion ineffectually over his head to try to block out the shrill jangle stabbing his brain. “ _What?_ ”

“... Kurt?” Blaine’s voice says, from the other end of the line. He sounds a little uncertain, possibly because Kurt just snarled at him over the phone. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m – I’m just not feeling well right now.” He rubs his aching eyes tiredly. “I didn’t mean to yell. What can I do for you?”

“Never mind, it’s not important – Kurt, you sound _awful._ Are you home by yourself?”

“Yeah, Carole’s at a conference in Columbus and Finn’s visiting Rachel in New York.” He pauses to cough fitfully, each hack scraping like sandpaper along his already sore throat. “Sorry, it kind of hurts to talk.”

“No, no, it’s not your fault – I’ll see you later, okay?” Blaine says quickly. “Feel better!”

“Thanks,” he croaks, hangs up, and lies back down.

It would have been nice to see Blaine today. Well, no, it would have been horrible, because if Kurt looks even half as unspeakably gross as he _feels_ right now, he doesn’t want Blaine anywhere _near_ him. But he would have enjoyed just being with Blaine and listening to his voice, and okay – he’s not going to lie – maybe asking Blaine for a handjob or something, because an orgasm would really go a long way to distract him from his current state of misery, and he’s not sure his right arm will hold out long enough to do it himself—

And then he bolts upright because _shit,_ he just remembered _why_ Blaine would call, because he _was_ supposed to see Blaine today, because they had a _date_ today that Kurt _completely_ forgot about, which means he _stood Blaine up_ ; oh _God,_ why didn’t Blaine say anything?

Because Blaine’s _nice,_ a snide voice in his head replies. Because Blaine’s a _good person_ who would remember to call or at least text if he had to cancel a date, and _fuck,_ Kurt should call him back and apologize, but even the _thought_ of any more talking just makes his throat seize up and his head pound even harder. He slumps helplessly back against the couch and screws his eyes shut.

He’ll make it up to Blaine, Kurt promises himself. When he’s no longer miserable and snotty and gross, he’ll go to Blaine and...

And his thought process stutters and sputters and dies, because... well, what _can_ he do that he doesn’t do already – like take Blaine out to dinner – or would really be selfish enjoyment for himself – like letting Blaine do whatever he wants to Kurt in bed on their next date, because Blaine is one of those irritatingly selfless people whose favourite part of sex is _making the other person feel good_.

He sighs, and then immediately regrets it when that sets off another round of coughs.

+++

An hour and a trip back to the kitchen later, Kurt is hunched over the coffee table and gagging through his mug of Emergen-C (the only flavor they have in the house is cherry; Kurt _hates_ cherry), when the phone rings again.

“Hello?”

“Oh good, you’re home,” Blaine says. He sounds a bit... out of breath, which is weird. “Can you open your door?”

Kurt blinks. His head still feels too thick, like all the mucus that’s clogging up his sinuses is actually interfering with brain function. “Why?”

“Um, because I’m on the other side, and I’m carrying a bunch of stuff that I think I’m going to drop soon, so please come quickly?”

“Oh,” Kurt says. Then, “ _Oh,_ you’re – you’re _here?_ ” He jumps to his feet... and is promptly knocked back on his ass by a gut-punch of nausea. He tries again, more slowly this time, and waits until he stops swaying on his feet before he says, “Hold on, I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you,” Blaine says, in a rush of breath, and hangs up.

It takes some strategic wall-hugging and furniture-clinging for Kurt to eventually make it to the door, and is about to open it when he catches his reflection in the mirror. _Oh God,_ his hair alone could frighten small children, and he’s seriously contemplating finding a paper bag to put over his head when he hears Blaine call his name again.

Sighing and resigning himself to Blaine possibly shrieking at the sight of him, Kurt opens the door.

“Hi,” Blaine says, smiling brightly with bulging bags hanging off both his arms and three large thermoses balanced precariously against his chest. His smile fades immediately when he takes a good look at Kurt. “Oh Kurt, you look _miserable._ ”

Apparently, just because you expect something to happen, it doesn’t actually make it hurt any less. He should have remembered that from high school. “Thanks.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean it like that!” Blaine protests, eyes wide and earnest as he tries to reach out to Kurt, apparently forgetting that his hands are kind of full, and then immediately has to do a bit of rapid juggling as the motion jostles and almost upsets the thermoses in his arms.

“Here, let me,” Kurt says, pity winning out over hurt pride, and carefully pries two of the thermoses away from Blaine.

“Thank you,” Blaine murmurs, eyes downcast, a blush colouring his face (Kurt tries and fails to not appreciate how good sheepish looks on Blaine). “What I meant was, you look like you _feel_ miserable, not that you _look_ it, because you look good – you always look good, even when you feel miserable, and,” he chances a quick glance up at Kurt’s face, his blush deepening, “should I stop talking now? I think I should stop talking now.”

“That would probably be wise,” Kurt says dryly, before he remembers that he stood Blaine up without calling him and so should probably be _nice_ to him if Kurt ever wants to get laid again. “Please come in. And I’m sorry about earlier. I forgot.”

Blaine smiles warmly at him as he toes off his shoes in the entrance foyer. “That was not even remotely your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

They make their way into the kitchen, slowly, because Kurt’s still a bit unsteady on his feet and Blaine ends up swinging his bags into his thighs if he walks too quickly. Kurt does offer to help Blaine unpack the things he brought, but is firmly and very politely rebuffed. So he parks his butt down on a chair and just takes this opportunity to ogle Blaine’s back, ass, and legs instead, because he’s _sick_ and he should be allowed this small pleasure.

“I brought soup,” Blaine says, with his back still turned, “but I didn’t know which kind you liked. So I brought a few. Where do you keep your bowls?”

“Cupboard above the microwave,” Kurt replies, and is rewarded by the sight of Blaine reaching up to open the cupboard, the motion baring a strip of tanned, smooth skin right above the waistband of his jeans. “I like chicken noodle.”

Blaine takes down three bowls, and grins over his shoulder at Kurt. “Good.” He pours the contents of the thermoses into the bowls, grabs a few spoons from the drying rack, and brings it all over to Kurt. “There’s also beef vegetable, and butternut squash.”

The soups look delicious: fat penne noodles floating amidst pieces of chicken, celery, and carrots; large chunks of beef so densely packed in with the potatoes and vegetables that it looks almost like a stew; and thick, creamy butternut squash topped with herbs. Kurt grabs the bowl with the chicken noodle, places it under his nose, and breathes deeply, letting the steam slowly clear up his sinuses.

He hears a soft chuckle from across the table, and he looks up to see Blaine, sitting across from him and smiling at him with gentle amusement. Kurt quickly puts the bowl back onto the table, feeling heat start to creep up the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and adds, belatedly (ugh, what’s _wrong_ with him today?), “Thank you.”

“For what?” Blaine murmurs, head tilted in genuine confusion.

“For dragging you out of your house to look after me,” Kurt replies. Now that he can smell things again, the soup is making his stomach grumble. “And for the soup – I didn’t know you could cook.”

“There really wasn’t any dragging required, don’t worry,” Blaine says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “And yeah, I can cook a little; nothing fancy – my mom said that I should keep it simple, anyway.”

Kurt freezes, a spoonful of soup halfway to his open mouth, and slowly lowers his hand. “Your mom made this?” he asks, with forced nonchalance as he does his best to suppress a quiver of – okay, yes, _irrational_ – fear (because no matter how often and how vigorously Blaine has assured him that it’s _not_ the case, that she likes Kurt _just fine,_ Kurt still can’t quite shake the feeling that whenever Mrs. Anderson says, “Hello, Kurt” in that cultivated, scrupulously polite tone of voice, she’s really saying, “Oh, it’s you again, you gold-digging manwhore”).

Clearly, his acting abilities could use some work, though, because Blaine promptly bursts into laughter. “Don’t worry, you’re safe from my mother’s villainous clutches – her role in this culinary endeavour was limited to over-the-phone consulting, I promise.”

Kurt’s pretty sure his blush can be seen from space by now, but Blaine’s laugh still manages to tug at the corners of his lips. He takes a small sip of the soup, nearly embarrasses himself ( _again_ ) by moaning at how incredibly _good_ it tastes after a day of pretty much nothing but cherry-flavoured Emergen-C, and just lets himself bask in the soothing comfort of Blaine’s presence for as long as he can before Blaine has to leave.

+++

It’s not until Kurt’s finished his soup, and he’s been ushered to the couch with a blanket wrapped around him, a plate of cookies and a glass of juice _and_ a mug of Theraflu on the coffee table in front of him, as well as a plastic bag full of DVDs on his lap (Blaine’s tastes in comfort-films apparently run to Audrey Hepburn and eighties teen movies), with a gentle order from Blaine to pick out a movie while he washes the dishes – it’s not until then that it hits him, that Blaine’s _not leaving_.

“Why aren’t you leaving?” Kurt blurts out when Blaine re-enters the living room, balancing a plate of sandwiches and fresh fruit, and three bottles of water (geez, how much stuff did Blaine _bring?_ ). Then his brain catches up to his mouth, and he adds, hastily, “Not that you _have_ to leave, but you’ve really been more than kind already with the whole bringing me food thing, so.”

“Um,” Blaine says, looking confused and a little uncertain, “do you _want_ me to leave?”

“No, _no._ ” Kurt takes a deep breath, and starts over. “Look, I just find it hard to believe that you don’t have anything better planned for today than babysitting a cranky, germ-ridden flu patient.” A thought comes to him suddenly. “And no offense, but if you’re sticking around for the possibility of sex later, you’re going to be really disappointed, because I don’t think I could get it up if the fate of the world depended on it.”

Blaine grins wryly and carefully puts his armload of food and drink down onto the coffee table, before joining Kurt on the couch. “So, if I tell you that I really _don’t_ have anything better planned for today, and that my intentions really are nothing other than to wait on you, hand and foot, while you cough all over me, will you think I’m gallant or just kind of pathetic?”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “ _Blaine—_ ”

“ _Kurt,_ ” Blaine says, in the same tone, though he’s still smiling. He reaches down and takes one of Kurt’s hands in his, rubbing his thumb gently across Kurt’s knuckles. “Look, you’re sick and home alone. I’m pretty sure that in these circumstances, taking care of you is a mandatory part of the boyfriend job description.”

Kurt stills, his hand tightening against Blaine’s, as his blood starts to pound in his ears. “Is that what we are now – we’re boyfriends?” he asks quietly, feeling suddenly lightheaded in a way that he’s pretty sure cannot be attributed to his illness, which makes absolute zero sense, because there’s no reason that he should be this... _intimidated_ by the idea of being Blaine’s boyfriend when he only stopped being Blaine’s _husband_ two weeks ago.

Blaine’s smile drops, and his eyes widen, making him look like a startled rabbit. “I, um...” He visibly swallows, and says, “Aren’t we?”

Kurt opens his mouth, the words _I asked you first_ poised on the tip of his tongue, before he bites them back. He knows intellectually that the most appropriate term for the person whom he’s been dating and fucking and – okay, he should at least be able to admit this to _himself_ – whom he’s _in love with_ would be “boyfriend,” but there’s still something terrifyingly _definite_ about assigning a name to what they have, what they are to each other. Terrifying, but not... not _bad._ No, not bad at all. “Yeah,” he says, breathlessly, then again, more firmly, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Blaine replies, and exhales quickly, like he was holding his breath. “Then yes, we’re boyfriends.” His whole face brightens on the last word, culminating in a smile that looks like the sun coming out after a rainstorm.

Kurt smiles back, because it’s impossible to do anything else when Blaine looks at him like that. “Okay.” And really, it shouldn’t feel like something huge has passed between them in the past thirty seconds, because they’re still fundamentally the same people in the same relationship, but for some reason, all Kurt wants right now is for someone – anyone – to walk into the room, just so that Kurt can turn to that person and introduce Blaine as his _boyfriend._

“Well, then, Blaine,” _my boyfriend,_ his brain fills in giddily, “let’s watch _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_.”

+++

Blaine stays the night, and by the following morning, he has caught Kurt’s flu. Carole is still away, so they are disgusting and miserable together for half a day before Blaine finally gives in and calls his mother to come over. She does, and says, “Oh my, you boys look terrible” with an intonation that totally means, “I can’t believe you got my precious baby boy sick, you vile, disease-ridden fiend,” but Blaine just cuddles closer to him, so Kurt can’t really bring himself to care.


End file.
